


Duet For Violin

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Misuse of Violin, Oral Sex, Slash, Unsystematic Knowledge of Anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>With the first faint whine of a tuning peg, my body begins to respond.  A sweat breaks out on my brow with the first discordant scrape of the bow and my heart races through the four counts of silence that precede the piece.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Duet For Violin

**Author's Note:**

> With the first faint whine of a tuning peg, my body begins to respond. A sweat breaks out on my brow with the first discordant scrape of the bow and my heart races through the four counts of silence that precede the piece.

_D Minor_

The night is warm and humid, London’s famous fog lying in a heavy blanket between the tiled rooftops and the August stars.

The street hums with life but I lie far above it in an early bed, having forsaken my reading light for the relative cool of the darkness and an open window. There isn’t a sound yet from the sitting room below but I know that it won’t be long, having glimpsed Holmes take up the bow and rosin as I climbed the stairs.

With the first faint whine of a tuning peg, my body begins to respond. A sweat breaks out on my brow with the first discordant scrape of the bow and my heart races through the four counts of silence that precede the piece.

The first bars are slow and sweetly discordant as the touch of an inexperienced lover; they rise from the floorboards and seem to hang about me in the air, conspiring to tantalise me. My hand moves slowly over my hardened, heated cock as I breathe them in. I take deep breaths in counterpoint to the slip and slide of my fingers and I fancy that I can smell the faint tang of heated resin and catgut.

The tempo moves in fits and starts, speeding and slowing my pleasure until my whole body aches with it. My breath comes fast and shallow as I picture him at the sitting room window, bending and swaying to the rhythm of the music. His eyes will be open and darkly shadowed beneath darker disordered hair, as luminous as the moon and just as distant.

I imagine him turning those eyes upon me, setting aside the violin and bow to lay his long, clever fingers on me and wring from me all my secret pleasure and shame. With that picture in my mind I finally surrender and spill my seed into my hands, shuddering and silent.

 

_G Minor_

At the edges of my hearing, beyond the siren call of my instrument, is the slight shift and groan of Watson’s bedstead.

The first night it came I thought that I had troubled his sleep, and so I laid the instrument aside and braced myself for a row. When he did not appear I went to his door to apologise but before knocking laid my ear to the door to ascertain what my welcome would be.  
No warmer welcome could I ask for than the sound of my own name, muffled and husky and bracketed by curses but unmistakeable.

Breathless and heated, I stood by the door for long moments listening to him gasp and groan. When his final cry came I turned away and retired to my own bed where I lay awake for long hours, searching my memories of Watson for some sign of the stranger who called my name in the darkness.

My sleep was disturbed; my dreams full of shadowy figures and slow caresses and I woke before dawn, groaning my completion into my pillow.

And so I play for him on these long nights, reaching out to him with music when I dare not reach for him with my hands. I seduce him with sweet slow minor chords, imagining him stretched out against me so that I might compose an opus upon his body.

I would draw my bow first across his breast, _legato_. Would he gasp and groan as the hairs parted over each nipple? Would his head fall back against my shoulder even as the violin rests against me now? Would I dare to then draw the bow against his throat, over his shoulders and down his spine just to feel him shiver and surrender, opening his mouth wantonly beneath mine?

 _Tremolo_ played with my fingers over his thighs and the very tip of his cock, sliding down to the base and then back again, discovering what wicked flick of my wrist would make him shake and cry out.

The piece climbs through a frantic _arpeggio_ and the shivering rhythm above me accelerates – he will be frantic now, flushed and desperate and calling for me through clenched teeth. I imagine tasting the obscenities as they fall from his tongue, saving them all up and releasing them in a flood when he drops to his knees and wraps his lips around me.

My heart pounds and my breathing hitches deep in my chest as I cast the violin aside and open my trousers. I brace myself against the mantle and in a few strokes it’s over; I climax with a groan, my teeth sunk into the sleeve of my dressing gown.

When the madness of my desire passes, it leaves shame and disgust in its wake. I wipe my hands with my handkerchief and cast it in to the fire, feeling some measure of control return as I watch it catch aflame.

With shaking hands I slip the violin into its case. The bow I cannot bear to touch and so leave it on the rug where it lies. A pretty mystery it will make for Watson in the morning, only a bow remaining where he left a man the night before.

As I creep down the stairs I fancy that I hear him awake still, that stranger that lives in Watson’s heart and his bedroom. I pay him no mind; in the morning he and I will be gone and in our places will be only Holmes and his friend Watson.

 

_A Major 7_

My heart is in my throat when I turn the handle on the door of our sitting room.

He is there, exactly as I imagined him; standing before the dark hearth with moonlight in his hair and a fever in his eyes – they shine from the shadowed planes of his face like those of a mad man.

He turns to me without missing a note, but the melody changes and slows. I know what he is asking, and I answer by stepping through the doorway and turning the key in the lock.

Still pulling the bow lazily across the strings, he watches me undress. He does not speak, but comes to me step by slow, swaying step until I can feel the brush of his shirtfront against my naked back.

With a final flourish he places the instrument aside and draws me to him, stroking the tip of the bow over my cheek and down my neck. The cool wood burns me like a brand, leaving a searing trail as he dances it across my chest before stroking the taut hair against my collar bones – just a quick, firm brush to each. I draw a quick deep breath and my desire begins to rise.

He grasps my hip with his left hand while his right saws the bow gently across my inner thigh, tantalisingly close to my cock but not yet touching. When I groan and twitch he smiles, just a feral flash of teeth in the dark, and moves further down my leg, circling my knee (brushing the back of it with his outstretched little finger) and tracing the line of my _gastrocnemius_ down to my heel.

With a choked moan that I barely recognize as my own, I watch him bring the bow to the arch of my left foot. He draws it across the skin in short, feathery strokes that register upon my sensitised nerves as a tickle on the skin and an aching pleasure below it. The unexpected sensation goes straight to my core and I can feel damp warmth spread over my glans.

A puff of warm air over my slick skin rouses me to open my eyes and I see him kneeling before me still holding the bow. He raises it and drags it between my legs, over the soft skin in the crease of my thigh and just when I think I might go mad I am engulfed in wet heat and suction.

I take but a brief glimpse down before I am overwhelmed and my eyelids slip closed but the image of his dark head moving between my legs appears in the darkness, seared upon my mind. I won’t last long.

Tugging on his hand, I pull him to standing once again and reach for his collar.

Piece by piece I reveal him, pale flesh and bones and scars and _him_ so beloved and so long awaited. He is glorious, blinding and for a moment he is as a god, graven of marble and moonlight and then he is no-one but himself; wicked smile fixed firmly on his face and his bow still in hand. He takes up the violin from where he earlier discarded it in passion and when I push him down on to the settee he rests it beside him while we kiss for the first time.

He tastes of brandy and cigarettes and some peculiar sweet thing that is as unique as his mind and voice and I know it will stay with me as long as those qualities, or perhaps longer. The flavour lingers in the hollow of his collar bones and the shadowed edge of his adductor, mixed intoxicatingly with sweat and the musky scent of his desire.

He gasps quietly when I kiss the tip of his sex and curses loudly when I slide my lips along it. As I wrap my fingers around the base I am surprised to hear the first low, vibrating strains of the piece I interrupted earlier. I hum along as the notes climb higher and he inhales suddenly but only a slight tremor of the bow betrays him as I start sucking in earnest, and again when I drag my fingernails along his perineum.

When he begins to cant his hips, his head falls back against the settee and my rhythm slows momentarily while I watch the shadows the movement of the bow casts on his long, white throat. When I resume my movements faster and deeper than before he whimpers and climaxes quickly and the bow falls carelessly against the strings, playing out the cresting of his passion in abrupt, discordant notes.

With a few strokes of my hand I join him, my forehead resting against the hard length of his thigh.

After a long moment I feel the soft whisper of the bow across my injured shoulder, long slow strokes that soothe and gentle me. He hums a drifting melody in time to his movements, a musician’s love letter played out against my skin.


End file.
